


Broken Pieces

by SixStepsAway



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Slapping kink, a little d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-13 07:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixStepsAway/pseuds/SixStepsAway
Summary: They're two people made of broken pieces, is that why they can't keep their hands off each other?(Or: Clara and the Doctor try very hard not to go back to their not-relationship, especially as she starts dating someone else, but it's easier said than done.A collection of stand-alone, smutty missing scenes from season 8.)





	1. Into the Dalek

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up more heartfelt than the porn I imagined in my head, tbh. I have plans for this episode, Robot of Sherwood and also Listen, and then I'll figure out more maybe.

They haven’t spoken about it, not since his little  _ I’m not your boyfriend _ speech that left her heart sitting firmly in the base of her throat.

She knew he wasn’t her boyfriend, she wasn’t utterly bloody stupid, and yet it had still hurt.

It still hurts, a little, even now.

But he’s different. He’s older and more restrained and he doesn’t capture her in his arms to give her spinny hugs anymore, doesn’t take her for cocktails on the moon or lead her by the hand back to his bedroom, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridors of the TARDIS. 

He’s different. She’s a bit different too. She’s different from that twenty-four year old girl he’d stood watch over, and he’s different from the floppy haired young man who walked like he was old. 

It had been effortless with him before, everything they were was just... perfect. Their edges fit together like they were created just for that, like she’d been created just for him and he for her. 

Now those same edge scratch. He’s callous, rude, and it’s like he doesn’t care at all, about her or about those around him. His eyes no longer sparkle with hope, they’re older too and not just for the lines around them. 

They’d sunk into a pool of dead people and he’d not batted an eyelash. 

And now she has dead people gluing her buttons shut, not to mention the stiff way her trousers hang off her hips. 

“Doctor,” she whines as she comes back into the console room. 

“Yes? What is it?” He doesn’t look around. 

She sighs. “I can’t get my clothes off.” 

His shoulders shift fractionally and she’s torn between the belief that he’s trying to hide his reaction and the idea that he’s just not having one anymore. “Oh? And what do you expect me to do about that?” 

She rolls her eyes so hard her head actually hurts. “Will you come help me, please?” 

For a moment she doesn’t think he will, but then he drags himself from the console (which isn’t the first time she’s felt jealous of the TARDIS, probably won’t be the last either) and steps across to her. He tries the buttons on her blouse, his fingers rough, and when the buttons won’t slip he pulls a face. “I’ll have to cut it.” 

“Oh, good,” she says. 

He finds a pair of scissors from god knows where and steps back over to her and when he puts the blade to her blouse, the metal cold against the skin beneath, he’s gentle and painstakingly careful, like the thought that he could accidentally nick her flesh is too awful to comprehend. 

She watches his face, studies the lines in it intently. A feeling of guilt swells up from her stomach and she opens her mouth and closes it again, then finally says, “I’m sorry.” 

He doesn’t look at her face, still cutting his way through the thickened, set mass along her buttons. “For what?” 

“Slapping you,” she says. 

Something akin to amusement passes over his face. “Oh? Are you? You never used to be.” 

Her stomach does a flip. So far she’s managed to divorce him from his previous self as much as she can, but there it is, the acknowledgement that the man who used to take her to bed is still standing in front of her. 

The man who rather enjoyed when she slapped him. 

“Well,” she says, “that was... different.” 

The cold of the scissors catch under her chin but only for a second, and then her blouse falls open. He tugs it off her and discards it. “Do you want this back?” 

“Probably not,” she says. 

“The TARDIS can clean it quite thoroughly.” 

She remembers that, too. “Okay, but you also cut it.” 

“You asked me to,” he says. 

“Point stands!” She watches as he tries the button of her trousers to no avail. The corners of his mouth twitch. 

“Well,” he says, “this is quite solidified.” 

A laugh bursts out from her chest before she can stop it. “Yeah, you think?” 

He chuckles under his breath and cuts through the trousers, as careful with those as he was with the blouse, and drops to a crouch to help her step out of them, settling one hand on the bare skin of her outer thigh. 

Another noise fights its way out of her, but this one isn’t a laugh so much as a little whimper at his touch. 

His gaze flicks up to her face and he puts the trousers aside without getting to his feet. He settles one knee to the floor of the TARDIS and watches her without speaking. 

She recognises this. She’s experienced it before, but from a different face, the same man on his knees waiting for some kind of command, or just some kind of permission. 

She knows what he needs right now. It isn’t orders or commands, it isn’t to be told what to do - it’s to be given permission to do what he wants. It’s the acknowledgement and, perhaps, unspoken promise, that she wants him as much as he wants her. 

“Go on then.” 

His hand slides around slowly to the back of her thigh, cups her skin there and she imagines he’s leaving red marks behind, burns where his skin touches hers and sets it on fire. She lets her mouth fall open a little and fights every instinct that tries to close her eyes and give into the enjoyment. 

She focuses her gaze on his face instead, watches as he runs his other hand up to catch the side of her underwear in his fingertips and drags them down her legs. 

She steps out of them and he moves them both, turning so she’s leaning back against the console. It’s an odd sensation of being exposed to entirely new eyes, and yet it comes accompanied by the impression of familiarity - he looks her over with the same hunger, the same intensity he did before his face changed, before his entire body changed. 

Ever since his regeneration, she’s wondered how much of him is the same. She can see similarities in the intensity of his gaze, she can hear it in certain words he uses, in the fond way he talks about his TARDIS, in mentions of past companions. 

But so much of him has been different ever since that day, she hasn’t given herself permission to wonder what else has changed about his body, if there’s a cell or a patch that looks the same or if it’s all different, if every inch has regenerated with him. 

His touch has changed, but it’s still familiar. 

He skims his hand across her skin, never touching hard enough to give her what she needs and it’s a tease, a terrible, awful thing he’s doing to her. Her breath catches as he presses his lips to her lower stomach, skin and lips rougher than she’s used to, where he used to be so soft. She likes it more, she finds, groaning low in her chest and digging her fingernails into the console behind her. His lips leave tingles in their wake now and she can’t say that she’s sorry about it. 

“Doctor,” she whimpers and reaches for his hair, but it’s too short to grip anymore and _that_ , that upsets her. She misses the long strands she’d twist her fingers up in and use to direct his face. “You’re teasing.” 

He makes a low noise against her skin and draws back to look up at her. “Clara,” he says, “when do I ever leave you hanging?” 

She hadn’t realised she was holding tension but she feels it drain away. She settles into him all at once and smiles down at him, soft and gentle. “Never.” 

He peppers kisses along her stomach, follows the crease between her thigh and her torso with his fingertips, runs his hand down her inner thigh to her knee and nudges her legs apart and she lets them open willingly for him, allowing him to start kissing new spots of pale skin, sucking in a few areas hard enough to leave little marks. 

She wonders if it’s deliberate, a reminder she’s still his, even if he’s not hers. 

She ignores the little pain in her heart and opens her eyes to refocus on him as he kisses a path up her inner thigh and between her legs. She sucks in a breath, digs her fingernails into his scalp if she can’t hold his hair, and he growls low against her in response. He latches onto her clit, suckles hard in the way he knows from when he was young and bowlegged that she likes. 

She grits her teeth to suppress a sound that threatens to escape, makes low little half-coughs in her desperation to not lose control and then he finds her hip with his hand and draws back from between her legs. He’s never done this before, opting in the past to simply use his mind to speak instead, but the words remain the same as they always have. 

“Relax, let go,” he says, “I’ve got you.” 

She releases her ironclad grip, lets her jaw relax, ignores the quiver of pain that runs through it from how hard she had it clenched. His fingers slip into her while she’s busy staring at his face and she lets out a cry from nowhere, shuddering all over at the feeling. His fingers are longer, thinner, and the ring on his left hand is cool against her warmth, like an electric shock passing through her. 

She hasn’t asked about the ring, isn’t sure she wants to. 

“D-Doctor, please,” she gasps out. 

He turns his hand, adjusts so that he can pump his fingers rhythmically and send sparks flashing behind her eyelids. He reattaches his mouth to her, licks and sucks between every pump of his fingers and she’s undoing faster than she’s ever undone before and she doesn’t know if it’s the different feel of his hands, combined with the learned skill of exactly how to work her, or if it’s the fact she never thought she’d have this again but here they are, that does it for her. 

She’s panting, crying out and grabbing at everything she knows is safe on the console, twisting her hand up around one of the levers and gripping for dear life. He knows exactly how to keep her right on the edge, tongue flicking against her just a little too slow. 

“Please,” she whimpers. 

He goes faster, sucks hard on her and even bites, a sharp flash of pain that ignites every nerve ending between his mouth and her eyes, that sends her tumbling so sharply over the edge into pleasure she can barely keep track of where she is anymore other than _home_. Her knees shake, her body quivers and she shouts and cries out as waves of pleasure pass through her and he eases her back down, slowing his movements and extracting those perfect fingers from inside her.  

He slips off his jacket, wraps it around her body, naked aside from her simple white bra, and presses a kiss to her forehead. She shivers a little and curls into him and it. He doesn’t hug her, but he’s there, warm and close. 

“Thank you,” she says, even though it feels like something silly to say after she says it. 

“Of course,” he replies. “Shall I take you home, now?” 

She shudders all over, once, a little aftershock of her orgasm. His jacket smells like him. She wants to ask if he wants to fuck her, wants to offer to get him off in return, but he’s already moving away and she wonders if his disdain of touch now stretches to his own pleasure, too. She’s too nervous to ask, worked open, exposed and vulnerable in front of him. 

“Back to the school,” she said and clears her throat to steady her words. “I have to go change.” 

He looks over, glances at her body, then her face. “I think you left clothes in my room,” he says, “but if you can’t find anything you can wear anything you want, as always.” 

She realises, tucked inside his jacket, that he really means that. 

“Thank you,” she says, and slips away into the TARDIS to change. 


	2. Robot of Sherwood

“You know,” the Doctor says as the TARDIS takes off, “I had a friend just like you once.”

Clara looks over at him from where she’s removing her jewellery. “Oh?” 

“Flirted with everything and everyone he could get his hands on!” he says. The TARDIS _vworp_ s in agreement. 

“And?” Clara says, setting her earrings down on the console. 

“Well,” he says, “it was very annoying.” 

“Just because you’ve never managed to flirt successfully with anyone in your life--” she starts. 

“I have you know,” he says, “I was a _very_ good flirter back then. It was the ears.” 

She looks at him like she doesn’t quite believe it. “Do the new eyebrows counteract that, then?” 

He narrows his eyes. She peeks back at him, nothing if not utterly adorable. “His flirting was so annoying,” he continues, “that I left him behind on a space station in the year 200,100 with nothing but dead Daleks and broken robots.” 

“That was mean of you,” she says, “and also a lie.” 

“Oh?” he says. 

“You’re talking about Captain Jack,” she says, smirking just slightly, “you’ve already told me _all_ about him and why you actually left him behind.” She leans her forearms on the console and watches him. “So, really, that had nothing to do with his _flirting_. Did he flirt with you?” 

“Perhaps I flirted with him first,” he says and flicks a lever, drifting around the console towards her.

“Probably not,” she says. “Did you go all grumpy at him when he flirted, like you do with me?” 

“Oh, no,” he says, “I had other ways of dealing with _him_. Maybe I should try those on you.” 

She lets out a laugh. “Doubt they’ll help, really, but you’re willing to--” She breaks off with a little noise when he presses the entire long length of his body to hers from behind. “--try.” 

“Oh?” he purrs in her ear. “Am I?” 

Well, that answers one question about his relationship with past companions, but she’s too distracted by the feel of him against her to really think about it for long. 

His fingertips find her dress, dragging it up her legs bit by bit, achingly slow. 

“Did you like my outfit, Doctor?” she asks, even though making words is difficult with that going on. “I think Robin did.” 

“It’s a little much,” he murmurs behind her ear, “traditionally most peasants wouldn’t have had access to such a bright colour. In fact--” 

“Are you calling me a peasant?” she says. 

He pulls her dress up until it’s around her waist and she feels a flush settle on her face. She hadn’t exactly worn period-appropriate undergarments (or clothing, really, if you ask him it seems), instead opting for a small black lacy pair of knickers. Her favourite pair. 

“Really, Clara?” he says, and one of his fingers traces across the lace where it sits comfortably against her lower back. “And what if someone had noticed?” 

“I was hoping someone would,” she says, blowing her hair out of her face. She hasn’t moved yet, can’t seem to make her arms or legs do anything that might stop him from whatever it is _he’s_ doing. 

“Robin?” he scoffs. 

“Probably not,” she whispers. 

His fingers catch in the lacy waistband of her underwear and they begin a slow descent over her ass and down her thighs that gets her wetter than she would ever admit even under oath, and then he lets them go once they reach her knees and they drop to her bare feet and ankles. She can feel the damp of them against her heel and she wonders if he noticed when he touched them or if her dignity is still intact, for now.

“I did,” he says. 

She swears at him under her breath. “I don’t remember inviting you into my mind.” 

“You’re very loud at times like these,” he says, “it’s hard to ignore.” She isn’t sure he’s trying. 

She wriggles just lightly, aware her ass is bare and turned up in the air where she’s leaning over the console, and just inches from the front of his pants. She can’t see him, not even in any of the reflections, and she doesn’t know what’s coming or what he’s planning and it sends a little thrill through her. 

His last incarnation was gangly and all hands, and he was the kind to let her take the lead else he’d forget what he was doing halfway through ( _she’ll_ never forget the time he got distracted from eating her out to tell a long story about something Donna once did on a planet inhabited by giant bugs, that’s for sure), but this one, this Doctor, he’s different. She was once told he had a sliver of ice in his heart and she didn’t get to see it until he regenerated, but she sees it now and it hits her somewhere she would never have expected before him. 

She trusts him, sliver of ice and all, and if that means staying very still bent over a console, waiting to see what he’ll do to her, then she’s definitely going to do just that. 

He brushes his lips behind her ear again and she feels her knees nearly go to jelly beneath her. “I’m glad you trust me,” he says, voice a low rumble. 

“Always,” she whispers and screws her eyes closed because it gives her some semblance of control. “Always, always...” 

His fingers press into her from behind, making an almost squelching sound in her wetness. She’d be embarrassed if it didn’t make little lights appear behind her eyelids. “Oh, oh, _Doctor_...” 

As quickly as they’d slipped into her, he pulls his fingers back out and she moans in mourning, digging her fingernails into the metal beneath her hands. “Tease,” she whispers. 

“You’re very wet,” he replies, and his voice is off, like he has something in his mouth. “Is this for me or for Robin?” 

“You,” she sighs out, “always you.” 

He seems satisfied with that answer, as he settles his hands on her ass and spreads her slightly with the pads of his thumbs. She feels utterly exposed, more than she even felt with nothing on but a hologram, and a shiver passes through her body from head to toes. 

“Clara,” he says, in that low gruff way, “this is a new body, I feel the need to check, do you--” 

“Yes,” she says quickly. A pause. “I assume you were going to ask if I was still okay with having sex with it? With you?” 

A moment passes and she wonders if she missed the actual question by a mile. 

“I was,” he says. 

She’s still wondering, so she swallows hard. 

“Relax and stay,” he murmurs behind her ear, and then the feeling of him behind her disappears. 

She doesn’t move.  The command sounds more like a request, despite his tone, and who is she to ever deny him anything? 

He comes back after a moment, one cool hand on her back. He pushes her forward and she makes a little noise as the buttons and dials on the console press into her chest through her scrunched up dress. She finds something to hold onto (“These are safe,” he once said, “would you like me to put labels on the ones you shouldn’t grab while we do this?”) and holds her breath. 

She feels him nudge against her, thinner than before, like most of him is, and she still doesn’t breathe until he slides his hand up to grip her shoulder and says, “I would prefer if you didn’t pass out before I’m fully in, Clara.” 

That makes her laugh and he takes the opportunity to slide all the way into her, _longer_ than before too and filling her in a way she didn’t expect. Her laugh turns into a gasped little moan and she grabs the handle on the console, knuckles going white at her tight grip. “Oh _fuck_ ,” she whispers. 

“Language,” he scolds and she laughs again, catching her breath now he’s not moving, now he’s just _there_ , deep inside her. He sounds like he did before, teasingly scolding her for her language, and it’s gentle enough to bring her back home, back down into a settled comfortable place where she can just relax into how it feels to have him inside her again. 

“Please,” she breathes. She tries to twist around to see him but he pushes her back down against the console and she drops her forehead against it. “Oh come on, _please!_ ” 

He keeps one hand on her shoulder, the other gripping her hip, and starts to move, at first in slow, aching strokes that spark and crackle throughout her body. It’s a slow build, not enough to bring her close to an orgasm but painstakingly slow and deliberate in causing full body shivers of pleasure to rock through her. 

She’s not sure if he’s teasing her, him or both of them, and she isn’t sure if she cares. 

“D-Doctor,” she moans, “ _please_.”

“Patience, Clara,” he drawls and she grabs the console and takes the opportunity to jerk her hips backwards onto him as he slides forwards. 

The noise that leaves her lips is caught between a moan and a gasp and is eclipsed only by the chest-deep groan that she hears behind him. She shudders at the sound, this new and beautiful sound of pleasure that _she_ caused in him, and she rocks her hips back again, in jerky desperate movements in a desperate need to have him make _more_ of those noises. 

“Cl-Clara,” he groans and adjusts their position a little to start rocking in quicker movements himself, the shift in angle focusing his attentions on exactly the right spot inside her to cause whimpers and gasps to escape her lips. 

She loses track of his sounds as he moves faster, fucking into her harder with a kind of singular focus, an intensity she hasn’t experienced from him before, and the hand on her hip slides around, long fingers finding her clit and rubbing sharply. 

She swears, he tuts, and she swears again, louder almost to make a point. He pounds into her hard enough she’s sure the dials will leave imprints on her chest and she scrabbles at the console until she finds her favourite handhold and clutches it. It vibrates under her touch and she moans, voice breaking as she begs his name. 

(She’ll wonder, later, if this counts as a threesome.) 

“Let go,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you, let go, it’s all right.” 

One day, that won’t disarm her, she thinks as she relaxes into his grip and stars appear behind her eyes. 

She scrabbles the console with her other hand, cries out his name and bucks and jerks her hips. She hears his sharp intake of breath, feels him fuck into her faster and less rhythmic and she bears down on him with what little strength she has left. He’s close and she’s already falling so she lets it go, grabs the hand on her shoulder and grips onto it, making a noise she’d find so embarrassing if she cared, if she cared even a little bit, as her orgasm floods her body and her muscles spasm, legs barely holding her up. 

He folds over her back, jerks his hips as he fills her, panting open-mouthed against the dress she wishes he’d taken off all the way, one arm still wrapped tight around her waist, clutching onto her like she’ll vanish if he doesn’t. 

She isn’t going anywhere. 

Her panting breaths leave the shiny parts of the console fogged up and a couple of her nails are broken from where she gripped too hard without even noticing. He hasn’t moved yet, she hasn’t either. She wants to stay like this forever, him inside her and the two of them alone, floating somewhere in space. 

She’s sure he murmurs her name when he finally draws back from her, slips out and leaves her feeling empty and lonely and a little cold. 

He wraps his jacket around her and she wonders how many of these she can keep, or if the TARDIS has them find their way back to his room one after the other. She stands up slowly and when she looks around he’s already pulled his clothes back on. 

Oh. 

“Are you all right?” he checks, for what she thinks is the first time since she met this new him. 

Her voice shakes. “Yes,” she says. “That was... yes.” She looks him over as he tucks his shirt back into his trousers. “Are you?” 

He looks at her in surprise. “Yes.” It’s so soft, like he can’t understand how she could possibly think he wouldn’t be okay after that. “Shall I get you home?” 

He should, but...

“Can I stay on the TARDIS a while?” she says. “Rest up before you take me back?” 

The barest hint of a smile passes over his lips. “Of course,” he says. “I’d like that very much.” 

“No adventures until I’ve showered and changed and had a good nap,” she declares, backing up for the doorway. 

“You’re the boss!” he chirps cheerily and turns back to the console like nothing happened. 

Maybe, she thinks, this is what this new Doctor wants - no strings, no attachments, no labels and no need to ever admit it’s happened after it’s over. 

She can handle that for now, and if things progress with Danny, well... She’ll just put an end to the sexual component of _this_ relationship. 

That can’t be too hard, right?

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing and you have tumblr, please hop on over to http://sixstepsaway.tumblr.com and hit follow. I'm posting a lot of original work over there and I appreciate any nibbles I can get on it ♥♥


End file.
